


tell me the story

by signifying_nothing



Category: K-pop, SHINee, 방탄소년단 | Bangtan Boys | BTS
Genre: M/M, eonnie's famous crossovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-18
Updated: 2016-06-18
Packaged: 2018-07-15 17:35:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7232092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/signifying_nothing/pseuds/signifying_nothing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>minho and taehyung spend the evening at home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	tell me the story

**Author's Note:**

  * For [anonasaur](https://archiveofourown.org/users/anonasaur/gifts).



> ha. HA. YOU THOUGHT I WOULDN'T DO IT, DIDN'T YOU  
> TAKE THIS

“Hyung?”

Minho sat up from where he was sprawled on on the couch, took one good look at Taehyung, and cooed in his general direction. It was easy to tell when the younger man felt down on himself; his shoulders got slumped, his face turned towards the floor and his _hyung_ had a distinct, desperate quality to it. Minho wasn't a stranger to Taehyung's up and downs.

“What's wrong,” he asked, sitting up and flapping his hands, motioning Taehyung closer. They were an unlikely pair and Minho knew it: heard about it endlessly from Kibum, who thought he was an idiot for dating someone so much younger. But Minho _liked_ Taehyung, they liked one another, and Taehyung filled an empty space in his chest that Minho was so sure would never be filled.

“Bad critique,” Taehyung mumbled, sitting down in Minho's lap and resting his temple on his shoulder, face turned away from his neck. “Really bad. _You should look for a different program,_ bad.”

“Oh, baby,” Minho frowned and tugged Taehyung a little closer, smoothed his hand down his back, kissed his hair. “I'm sorry.” It hadn't been an easy semester for his younger lover. Minho had graduated already, had his degree and a decent office job but Taehyung was flighty and quizzical, entire being bright with the sort of magic so few people managed to hold onto past childhood. There was nothing Minho wanted more than for Taehyung to be able to keep that twinkle in his eyes, but college was crushing him. It was painful to watch him crumple under the pressure, the deadlines, the lack of creative freedom in classes that were supposed to be nurturing his natural inclination for whimsey. But Taehyung had to try: for his parents, for himself. He was miserable, and Minho prayed it didn't last another semester. The past year had been hard enough.

“I feel so, so _stupid,_ hyung,” Taehyung's voice got thick and trembled. His hands fisted into Minho's loose shirt, clenched into the fabric nearly tight enough to rip it. “I ju—I feel so, so _stupid,_ like I'm su-such a fucking _failure—_ ”

“Oh, oh shh,” Minho murmured, rocking Taehyung sweetly back and forth, kissing his hair and holding on to his trembling back. It wasn't the first time Taehyung had come home after a bad critique in need of comfort. Minho didn't know much about art or writing, but he knew that Taehyung's paintings and his way with words were magical. There was something so special about them, because they had Minho—who fancied himself a very simple man, without much love for the cultural out of sheer disinterest—engaged in whatever story Taehyung was trying to tell. Minho had sat with Taehyung while he played _Journey,_ had listened to him weave the story of the game for the six hours it had taken him to play it, and he'd never been so interested in such a thing in his life.

“You're not a failure, baby,” he promised. “You're not.”

“My p-program director ha-hates me,” Taehyung's voice was getting high and fast, nearly hysterical. It must have been really bad, then. Minho tried to keep him still while holding him down as little as possible. “She h-hates me, she, she said I should _quit—_ ”

“What,” Minho asked, his voice hard and cold. It was one thing to give a harsh critique: it was another thing entirely to tell a nineteen year old that they should quit school because they weren't filling in the lines properly. What hypocritical bullshit from a place that was supposed to be helping artists grow.

“She said I should quit,” Taehyung whispered, his entire body relaxing into a slump. He turned his face into Minho's neck. “That I don't ha. Have... I don't know. I didn't stay to find out.”

“Good,” Minho murmured, carefully getting up. Taehyung wasn't a small man, but Minho was strong and he carried him, hands under his thighs, to their bedroom, to lay him down into bed. “That's a horrific thing to say and you shouldn't have had to hear it.”

“What if it's true, hyung,” Taehyung said, sitting on the edge of the bed, eyes on Minho as he knelt in front of him, reached up to cup his face in both hands. “What if she's right.”

“What if she's wrong?” Minho asked, leaning forward to kiss Taehyung's trembling lips so very, very gently. “It doesn't matter. It's wrong of her to say those things to students. It doesn't matter how much she doesn't like your work, Taehyung. It's a rotten, nasty thing to say and I'm sorry you had to hear it.”

“Me too,” Taehyung whispered. Minho ran his thumbs over Taehyung's high cheekbones, kissed his lips and the sides of his nose, the mole beneath his eye, his hairline, his temples and his chin. “Aah, hyung, stop,” he whined and Minho laughed.

“I'm sorry, am I interrupting your moping time,” he asked, leaning forward to continue pressing theatrical kisses all over Taehyung's face while Taehyung leaned back into the bed, fussing in protest until he was giggling, chewing at his own lower lip and looking out at Minho through the dark fall of his bangs. He was so darling, Minho's own little slice of fantasy. “Did you want to be sad all night, or would you rather eat dinner and make out with me until we pass out on the couch?”

“It's Friday night,” Taehyung whined, even as he wrapped his arms under Minho's arms to hold on to him. “It's lame that we're gonna stay home and, and do nothing.”

“I don't think you really mind,” Minho pointed out, kissing the end of Taehyung's nose. “Come on. We can order in? Why don't you invite Jimin and Jeongguk over?”

“Don't want to,” Taehyung pouted, and Minho didn't miss the way his arms tightened, or his thighs opened a little further as he tugged him closer. “Sides, I think they're going to Busan for the weekend, since we have Monday off, too.”

“Mm,” Minho nodded. “I see.” He pushed forward—bullied Taehyung onto his back and looked down at him, focused on the gold of his skin in the lamplight, the flush of his cheeks, the pinkness of his mouth. Taehyung was beautiful. Minho knew he was handsome, but there was something very ethereal about Taehyung that reminded him a little of Jonghyun, who possessed the same sort of childish fancy. But it was only skin deep on both of them. Neither of them were children in any sense of the word.

Bracketing his arms on either side of Taehyung's head, Minho leaned down to kiss him properly, sweet and full on the mouth. Taehyung sighed, and the timbre of his groan made Minho's lip itch as he settled up and closer, stretched awkwardly between where his thighs hit the edge of the bed and his elbows dug in just above Taehyung's shoulders. “You'd rather just,” he kissed Taehyung's jaw. “lay here and,” he gave a slow, soft suck to the thin skin of his neck to the sound of Taehyung gasping, one hand clenching in Minho's dark, dark hair. “Let me love you?”

“Yes,” Taehyung breathed, and Minho laughed, sitting up, looking down at him. Flushed, smiling, all traces of that anxiety wiped free from his face and it was all Minho wanted: for Taehyung to always look like this, carefree, happy, and bright as the sun through dogwood leaves in summer.

“Clothes off,” Minho insisted, sitting up and then standing, pulling his shirt over his head. He pretended not to notice Taehyung's _ah, hyung_ until he'd tossed it aside and started working on his belt. “What,” he asked, when he turned back to the bed and Taehyung's clothes were all but vanished, leaving him sitting there on his knees and looking up at him. “Can I help you?”

“You can model to be the prince in my next story,” Taehyung laughed. “I think it'll be fun! I mean, you're basically already a prince, hyung. So handsome, and all.”

“Oh, so that's all I am? Handsome?” Minho shimmied out of his jeans and climbed onto the bed to rest his weight between Taehyung's legs as he laid him down, tickling fingers up and down his ribs. Only Taehyung could laugh during sex and not have Minho feeling like he was doing something wrong. Or stupid. Taehyung laughed at kisses to his neck, giggled at the hands on his waist, and the sounds shifted to moans when Minho's weight pressed down against his pelvis. Taehyung was nineteen and sex was still an adventure, something _fun,_ not something done purely to get off or purely to impress a partner. It was a dance, one that the two of them had only been doing since late last year, when Taehyung had finally, blushingly, asked when they were going to _take it to the next level or, or whatever._

“There's nothing else? I'm just good looking?”

“You're _so_ good looking,” Taehyung laughed, reaching up to curl his fingers in Minho's hair, dragging him down for another kiss, and another. Minho sighed and slotted his hips right where it was most comfortable, biting on Taehyung's lower lip. Taehyung gave a musical little whimper into his mouth and Minho felt his heart melt.

After a moment of just resting their bodies together, Minho pulled away and sat up, ran his fingertips down Taehyung's bare chest and belly, dug his nails into his thighs and watched him shiver, watched him put his hands over his head and arch his back with a moan that was positively _obscene._ “Hyung,” Taehyung groaned, opening his thighs and lifting them higher. “Please?”

With the younger man spread out beneath him like that, with his lips bitten and his legs open and his torso raked with pretty pink welts, there was very little Minho could deny Taehyung, if anything. He reached for their bottle of lubricant and, at Taehyung's blushing request, the cockring he liked to wear.

It had embarrassed Taehyung so much at first; he always came as soon as Minho was seated. Something about being so _full,_ so _close._ Minho had bought the ring on a whim but it helped Taehyung last longer, kept him from being so overstimulated while Minho worked towards orgasm between his legs, which made Minho happy. He wanted Taehyung to _enjoy_ himself during sex, not be pushed so far into nerve-tingling stimulation he started to cry.

Sometimes Taehyung wanted to do that, but not today.

Minho stretched out the material and brought it down—made sure it settled nicely around Taehyung's cock, already leaking onto his belly, and his balls, already firm. It pleased Minho endlessly that his lover was so easily drawn into arousal; it made for interesting drives home and intense moments in club bathrooms, when Taehyung could convince him to go. He slipped his hand away and watched Taehyung squirm, settling into the sensation before opening his thighs and looking up at him, blushed, bottom lip swollen. All of the bad thoughts from when he'd come home seemed to be gone and Minho was thankful; they'd deal with them tomorrow, but tonight was just for them.

Fingers slick with lubricant, Minho worked his hand between Taehyung's legs, content to sit on his knees and watch his younger lover jerk and gasp, hands fisted into his pillow, body straining up whenever Minho's fingers bent at just the right angle. “Ah, hyung,” he whined when Minho was three fingers deep and _still_ just looking down at him. “ _Please._ ”

“So impatient,” he accused, and Taehyung glared up at him, so frank that Minho had to laugh. “Aah, all right, I'm sorry. Give me the,” Taehyung was already handing him the bottle, dropping it into his hand and holding his thighs open with his hands.

“Get in me,” he said, pouting fiercely. Minho cocked an eyebrow and paused where he was fisting lube onto his length.

“Excuse me? You're asking me like that?”

“Hyung!”

“Ask nicely and I'll consider it, Kim Taehyung,” Minho said, but there was a smile on his lips as he pulled his fingers free and moved to sit between Taehyung's legs, rolling his body up just a bit. Taehyung reached to hold the backs of his thighs and Minho bent to kiss the side of his knee, pressing against him, just a little.

“Please?” Taehyung asked, and Minho smiled against his leg, bit gently and pushed his hips forward: enjoying the slow, hot sink as always. Taehyung groaned, the sound cutting off into a gasp when he was fully seated. Minho stayed right where he was as Taehyung's chest heaved and his fingernails bit into his thighs, his hips cocked and his bottom lip was savagely bitten between his teeth. Ethereal. Sin, personified. Minho _adored_ him. “Oh, shit, oh shit hyung, fuck.”

“You okay?” Minho asked. “Angle's good?”

“Yeah,” Taehyung panted, raking his nails over his chest and leaving bright welts on his skin. “Fuck yeah, s'good, oh _god._ ” Minho could always count on Taehyung to be honest with him during sex: their second time, he'd put his hand on Minho's chest and said simply, _I don't want to do that, can we do this instead?_ He'd never been so grateful for an honest lover.

“Can I move?”

“Please,” Taehyung sighed, finally settling back, arms up on either side of his body, hands above his head. “Slow n'deep, hyung, please?”

“Want me to make sweet love to you?” Minho asked, getting down onto his elbows, smiling when Taehyung's hands draped over his shoulders.

“Yes,” he replied, and Minho felt everything soften into smooth curves, stretched to kiss him, hands moving to cradle his head, curling Taehyung up but allowing them to get closer, so much closer. Close enough that the glide of their skin was wet with sweat, close enough that Minho couldn't really thrust so much as rock his hips and that was enough—with Taehyung's gasping mouth open under his and his fingers digging into Minho's shoulders and hair, it was enough. It was perfect.

“Hyung,” Taehyung whispered, tongue thick with his accent. “Hyung m'close, please, just—need, need you—” Minho reached down to stroke Taehyung off, rubbed at his tip with his fingers and squeezed on the downstroke, made sure to twist his wrist. Taehyung fell apart in a shivering mess, his thighs shaking violently, his back arching tight. It was the sight of Taehyung—eyes squeezed closed, mouth open, cheeks flushed—that pushed Minho into orgasm and he groaned, bending to rest his head on Taehyung's chest, his hand stilling. A moment later, Taehyung's hands were pulling at his hair, tugging insistently to yank him up into a fierce kiss, possessive, reaffirming: _mine._

“I love you,” Taehyung panted when they parted, staying close, sweaty hair sticking to his forehead and cheeks as Minho got them onto their sides and gathered him up to his chest. “I love you, so much.”

“I love you, sweetheart,” Minho murmured, kissing Taehyung's cheek, his hair and the end of his nose, happy to see his breathless smile, happy to see him cuddling close instead of pulling away. “Sleeping in tomorrow?”

“Yeah,” Taehyung nodded. “I wanna replay _Journey_.” He paused. “Wanna watch?”

“Are you gonna tell me a story?”

“...Yeah,” Taehyung nodded, and Minho brought up their clasped hands to kiss his fingers. He pretended not to notice the little shine of happy tears.

“I want to hear every word.”

 


End file.
